


An Ever-Fixed Mark

by little-smartass (Linxcat)



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, I don't think it's too intense but if that's something you're sensitive to please be careful, M/M, a panic attack happens, and there are many mentions of Lestat's canon body dysphoria, essentially an end of QOTD fixit, in which Lestat is the one hurting and Louis comforts, it is cheesy? probably yes. do I give a fuck? absolutely not., mostly it's fluff but... it's these two of course there's some angst in there too, my readers can have a little comforting body worship. as a treat.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23785630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linxcat/pseuds/little-smartass
Summary: It's the same face Louis had pulled when he'd anxiously asked Lestat if he was leaving them -him- again, back in the graveyard, and that means Louis is afraid that postponing the trip to London might provoke Lestat into leaving him for good. Lestat wants to protest, but… well, the fear isn't entirely unfounded. His knee-jerk reaction had been anger, after all.Writing those books has pushed him into far too much self-reflection, he thinks grouchily. He's never second-guessed himself this much before. Never worried so much about everyone else'sfeelings.No, he thinks,You just had decades of regrets instead.He grinds his teeth, but he's not really angry. How can he be, with Louis here in his arms, so anxious to be near him? And thinking about his plans in London that had felt so delicious and exciting - to break the rules, and put the fear of The Vampire Lestat into David Talbot - now they seem so pointless and empty.This- this is more important.
Relationships: Lestat de Lioncourt/Louis de Pointe du Lac
Comments: 15
Kudos: 138





	An Ever-Fixed Mark

**Author's Note:**

> I always felt like in QOTD Louis was specifically going to New Orleans to say goodbye, so that he could have a decent shot of moving on - both of them going to RR, then leaving it together, agreeing that it isn't good for them to be there, that they don't want to stay, visiting Louis' grave - it all felt like it was SUPPOSED to be their final goodbye to their old life so they could start a new one, together. Obviously AR went on to totally fucking abandon that by the next book, but here's what I felt like that scene COULD have been for them; they can't solve all their problems in one night, but they can at least start to acknowledge them, and try and make a good clean go of it :)

O no! [love] is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wand'ring bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

- _Sonnet 116, Shakespeare_

___

_I smiled. I kissed him suddenly, thrilled by the warmth of him, the soft pliant feel of his near human skin. God, how I hated the whiteness of my fingers touching him, fingers that could have crushed him now effortlessly. I wonder if he even guessed._

_There was so much I wanted to say to him, to ask him. Yet I couldn't find the words really, or a way to begin. He had always had so many questions; and now he had his answers, more answers perhaps than he could ever have wanted; and what had this done to his soul? Stupidly I stared at him. How perfect he seemed to me as he stood there waiting with such kindness and such patience. And then, like a fool, I came out with it._

_"Do you love me now?" I asked._

_He smiled; oh, it was excruciating to see his face soften and brighten simultaneously when he smiled. "Yes," he said._

_"Want to go on a little adventure?" My heart was thudding suddenly. It would be so grand if- "Want to break the new rules?"_

_..._

_"What do you mean?"_

_"Louis, put yourself in my hands. Look, if I can't pull it off, you won't really be hurt. Well, not that much. Game? Make up your mind. I want to be off now."_

_He didn't say anything. He was looking at me, and so affectionately that I could hardly stand it._

_"Yes or no."_

_"I'm probably going to regret this, but…"_

_"Agreed then."_

-

"But where are we _going_?"

Lestat grins, "I wanted to keep it a surprise, but if you _must_ know, I was thinking we'd touch down in London."

Yes, London! The destination idea forms in his mind as he says it. What a brilliant thought! Turn up and give this David Talbot a good scare, see how smart and mysterious he thinks he is with two bona fide vampires on his doorstep!

But Louis is frowning, "London? That's… that's clear across the North Atlantic Ocean! Thousands of miles away!"

"Don't worry, I won't drop you," Lestat winks, "You might want to hold on a little tighter, though…"

Louis is so wrapped up in his concerns that he completely misses the innuendo and instead just grips Lestat's denim jacket harder, knuckles white.

"Wait, Lestat, can you just- can you just wait a moment? Please?"

Lestat's excitement drains away, "What is it?" He asks, roughly jolting them still in the air to physically mark his displeasure. Louis' entire body tenses and his eyes briefly shut, and it's enough of a reaction that Lestat feels vindictively satisfied in his irritation.

"Look," Louis says, swallowing and opening his eyes. With one of Louis' arms around his neck, their faces are very close. "I want to go with you to London. I swear to you, I honestly do."

"But…?" Lestat asks, scowling. Of course Louis is doing this, _god_ , he doesn't know why he thought they could ever do something _spontaneous_ for once. Disappointment and irritation rise in his stomach like a tide.

Louis must see it in his face, because he shifts his hand from its vicelike grip on Lestat's shoulder to touch his cheek in a sort of supplicating gesture, " _But_ , I have some business in New Orleans that I need to stay in the city for. Is there any way we can do this tomorrow?"

"Reschedule it."

"I can't," Louis says, grimacing, "Not at such short notice."

"Well…" Lestat blusters, "Well... what's the business? What's so important?"

Louis presses his lips together and glances away; out, over the clouds, and then quickly back, "I'm meeting with some purchasers. I'm selling my properties in New Orleans."

Lestat blinks, genuinely stunned. The frustration dissipates like early morning mist and only a vague sense of hurt is left. New Orleans is _their_ city, and Louis is trying to throw that away? Give their history to some… some faceless executive who'll probably just turn the houses into some mass-marketed coffee shop chain? He opens his mouth but doesn't know what to say.

Louis quickly carries on, "I'm selling them because I… well, I realised when I did the interview with Daniel that I've spent the last century living in the past. And then -" he laughs, smiling sadly at Lestat, "And then _you_ woke up, and... I found _hope_ again, and I realised I didn't want to live in the past anymore."

Lestat's mouth opens and shuts and he still can't find the words. Pain and affection are at war inside of him; Louis is selling their past to pave the way for their future. How is he supposed to respond to that?

"Rue Royale is still deeded to you, of course, so obviously you're free to do as you wish, but I suppose…" Louis shrugs, "It sounds foolish when I say it outloud, but I suppose I wanted it to be symbolic."

"Right," Lestat says, voice rough, "I see."

"If you really want to go now, that's alright - you could go ahead and I could meet you there? Or- or if I can get Armand to send a plane for me, I'm sure I could get back to Louisiana in time for the meetings." Louis says quickly, squeezing Lestat's shoulder, "We can still go now if you really want."

It's Louis' earnestness that gets him, that washes away the last nasty gritty bits of his frustration still lingering. How can he say no to that laugh? That self-deprecating smile? And under the smile there's… fear? Is that fear in his eyes?

Lestat goes cold. Is Louis scared of _him_? Surely he knows he'd never drop him, he was just annoyed, surely he knows-

No, not fear _of_ him. Not quite. It's the same face Louis had pulled when he'd anxiously asked Lestat if he was leaving them - _him_ \- again, back in the graveyard, and that means Louis is afraid that postponing the trip to London might provoke Lestat into leaving him for good. Lestat wants to protest, but… well, the fear isn't entirely unfounded. His knee-jerk reaction had been anger, after all.

Writing those books has pushed him into far too much self-reflection, he thinks grouchily. He's never second-guessed himself this much before. Never worried so much about everyone else's _feelings_.

_No_ , he thinks, _You just had decades of regrets instead._

He grinds his teeth, but he's not really angry. How can he be, with Louis here in his arms, so anxious to be near him? And thinking about his plans in London that had felt so delicious and exciting - to break the rules, and put the fear of The Vampire Lestat into David Talbot - now they seem so pointless and empty. _This_ \- this is more important.

He sighs, and tries to let the aggravated tightness in his chest disappear.

"It's alright," Lestat says, the smile coming surprisingly easily, "It can wait until tomorrow."

Louis frowns, "You're certain?"

"Absolument."

Lestat watches the relief pass through Louis' body; feels the tension disappear from his shoulders, sees the anxiety in his eyes fade. Was he really so terribly worried? Louis' mouth curls up at the corners, hesitantly returning Lestat's smile, "Alright. Will you drop me off at my lodgings, please?"

"I will," says Lestat, "But you must promise me one thing first."

"Yes?"

"That you won't postpone again," Lestat says, his smile widening into the toothiest, most devilish grin he can manage, "Otherwise I shall go by myself, and who _knows_ what mischief I'll get up to alone…"

Louis actually laughs at that, "I promise. Lord knows you cannot be trusted."

"He does indeed. So, where are you staying?"

Louis glances around them; they can't see much of the city through the clouds, but he's always had a good sense of direction. He points to the south, "I'm in the old townhouse in the Garden District, do you remember it?"

Lestat considers as he slowly lowers them through the clouds, "You mean the one you rented to Madame Boniface, who threw that soiree where three people died before we even arrived?"

"Yes, that's the one," Louis' grip tightens on Lestat's jacket again as the city becomes visible once more, "Thankfully they moved out shortly after that."

"Boniface…" Lestat says thoughtfully, trying to recall the woman’s face, "She was determined to set you up with her daughter, wasn’t she?"

Louis lets out a self-deprecating huff of laughter, "She was. There’s no accounting for taste, I suppose."

"Don’t be ridiculous," Lestat says, "You were the most handsome man in any room, easily. Of course she wanted you for a son-in-law."

"Lestat," Louis rolls his eyes, "Now _you’re_ being ridiculous."

"Alright, fine - you were the most handsome man in any room until _I_ walked in."

Louis raises an eyebrow, "Then I wonder why she didn’t pursue you?"

"There’s no accounting for taste, I suppose," Lestat parrots back, winking. Louis shakes his head, though he’s smiling a little.

The banter is fun, but Lestat’s heart aches at the fragility of it all; they’d managed this kind of easy back-and-forth many times over the decades they spent together, however it always wound up being a precursor to one of them getting hurt. A playful jab would hit a sensitive spot, the injured party would lash out viciously, and then they’d both retreat into a prickly, bitter kind of truce that only existed for the sake of placating their daughter, orbiting her like two miserable moons trapped within the debris of all their previous collisions.

In hindsight, it’s ridiculous, but at the time it had seemed so terribly important, every moment utterly fraught with significance. Lestat shifts his grip on Louis’ hip, and as Louis subconsciously leans into his arms in response, Lestat lets the ache in his heart fade into warmth again.

It’s different now, he reminds himself, as he navigates them towards the Garden District. Louis read his book, read the apologies and explanations pressed between the pages and hidden behind the printed letters, and he understood, and he came back. Louis, knowing him at his absolute best and utter worst, _chose_ him, all over again.

What does that mean for them, now? He’s not sure. But he’s going to see Louis tomorrow, and for tonight, that’s enough.

Lestat tries to set the thought aside, and surveys the expanse below him, letting the beauty of it all fill him up and bring a smile to his face. The city is full of light and life, even so early in the morning, and the sight of its golden-lit sprawl around the river fills him with warmth. He'll always have a place for it in his heart, he thinks, but he's not certain he can call it _home_ anymore.

Though he's not certain where home _is_ now. Lestat glances at Louis, who is gazing down at New Orleans with a thoughtful expression but a world of affection in his eyes. Maybe home could be a _person_ instead of a place - he'd seen that in a movie, or read it in a book, hadn't he? It's terribly cliché, but he thinks he understands what that means, slowly leaving the clouds behind and descending back to earth with this man in his arms. Every moment feels oddly profound.

There are no mortals out at this time on the quiet residential street, so Lestat touches them down on the pavement right outside the house.

"Tada," he says, with a theatrical bow, when Louis steps away from him, "Faster than any taxi service or streetcar, I'll warrant."

Louis smiles, "I'd say so," he agrees, hand lingering on Lestat's arm, "Thank you."

Louis unlatches the gate and they walk together up the steps to the front door. With each step closer they take, a strange awkwardness creeps up Lestat's spine - should he just leave? Should he ask to be invited in? How is it that he's known this man for two hundred years, seventy of which they were essentially _married_ , and he can still be standing here on his doorstep, fretting like a teenager at the end of a date? How mortifying. How _mortal_. God.

Louis seems unaffected, pausing as he reaches the door and turning to look at him in a way that's excruciatingly fond.

"Thank you for listening to me," he says, quietly.

"What?"

"About going to London."

Louis is still looking at him, and his expression is so gentle and soft that it makes Lestat feel oddly defensive. He's not a gentle and soft person - he shouldn't covet these gentle and soft looks so desperately. He shouldn't want Louis to be gentle and soft with him, he doesn't- he doesn't-

He doesn't what?

He doesn't _deserve_ it.

Lestat shoves that thought down and shoves his hands in his pockets, shrugging like Louis is making a big deal out of nothing.

"Yes, well…" he shifts from side-to-side, "Just see that you don't break your promise."

Louis nods, amusement creeping into his expression at the awkwardness, and, irritated at that, Lestat forces himself to relax. He watches as Louis fishes his keys out of the pocket of his long coat; it's not quite any of the old styles they used to wear, but the cut is similar, and Louis has always been a creature of habit. With no one cajoling him into colours he's reverted back to dusty shades of grey and black and green, and even in the heat of Miami on Night Island he'd refused to dip into fashionable neons and had stuck to his shadowy palette. Here in New Orleans he's added a thick woolen sweater over his usual sensible shirt, slim black jeans - intact this time - and black ankle boots. The whole outfit smacks of dull smart-casual respectability but it is all, at least, newly bought and well-fitted.

"Well," Louis says, jiggling the keys in his hand absently, "Do you have somewhere to stay?"

Lestat shrugs, "There's a new place just around the corner from Lafayette Square that I might give a try."

"Yes, I saw it," Louis raises his eyebrows, "It certainly looks… to your taste."

"You mean exorbitant," Lestat says grinning, and Louis' mouth twitches but he says nothing, "Well, you needn't worry about that - my wallet's still in Carmel Valley so Armand gave me one of his credit cards," Lestat fishes it from his back pocket and twirls the little rectangle of plastic between his fingers, "Look at this, _American Express Platinum_. I could buy the entire hotel just on here!"

Louis shakes his head, tossing the keys in his hand again, and Lestat knows that this is an unspoken signal of the night coming to a close, but he's not _ready_ yet - something desperate clenches in his chest, a deep-seated desire to stay here in this moment, with Louis' fond half-smile and the moonlight making his pale skin glow.

"Forget those," Lestat says, nodding at the keys, "You don't need them, you've got _me_."

He focuses hard on the lock mechanism of the front door, thinks _turn_ , and pushes. The door clicks and swings open. Inside, Lestat can see a small old-fashioned fireplace with the remains of a few logs left. He lifts his hand and, just for the delight in the showmanship of it, snaps his fingers and points at the fireplace; a tiny flare of pain in his head, and flames burst out of thin air and spread over the logs.

Pleased with himself, Lestat turns back to look at Louis. He's staring at the door, mouth slightly open, startled, and as his gaze moves to the conjured fire his eyebrows dip, his eyes widen, and his whole body tenses - it's only for a second before he quickly catches himself, but Lestat sees it for what it is.

Louis isn't impressed. Louis is horrified.

The self-satisfied pride sours in Lestat's throat.

"That's… new," Louis says, hesitantly, face politely composed now, but Lestat can't forget _that_ reaction, "Your abilities have certainly developed."

Abruptly, the urge to elongate the moment disappears and Lestat wants the evening to be over, right now. He should just leave. Just lift his body into the air and close his eyes and let his mind float him back across the city. He curls his hands into fists and shoves those fists into his jacket pockets.

"Yes," Lestat says bitterly, "I'm faster, I'm stronger, I could break your arm with one hand. I'm every bit the monster you always knew I was."

Louis frowns at that, but doesn't protest. He says nothing for several moments, just studies Lestat with that mournful look in his eye, like he's trying to knock down the barrier between their minds and search his thoughts. Lestat shifts from foot to foot. There's an anger building inside of him and he wants to scream it out, but at the same time he wants to smother it because Louis is so damnably _fragile_. If he hurts Louis (again) he'll never forgive himself (again).

God, self-reflection is a terrible idea for immortals. There’s far too much to reflect on. He's _never_ writing another book.

"I wish you would talk to me about it," Louis says softly.

Lestat scowls, "It was all in the book - Gabrielle said you read through the draft I gave her. What more do you need to know?"

"It's different though, to hear it from you."

Lestat throws up his hands. The anger surges dangerously and he bares his teeth at Louis, growing even more agitated as Louis doesn't so much as flinch, just blinks slowly at him.

"Alright, what do you want to know?" Lestat snarls, "You want all the gory details? My damn autobiography wasn't enough for you?"

Louis does react to that; his mouth twists, then he goes very still, the way he does when he's emotional, and what the _fuck_ has _he_ got to be emotional about here? Why can't he just leave well enough alone?

Louis clenches his jaw, then opens his mouth, his whole body tensing, physically pulling himself together for a fight, and Lestat is ready, oh, Lestat is _so_ ready for this fight - and then, abruptly, Louis’ shoulders drop and his mouth snaps shut and he looks away, apparently thinking better of it.

But Lestat is hungry for it now. Rage boils inside of him. He doesn’t want to let it go.

"No, no," Lestat snaps, deliberately goading, "Go on, _say it_."

Louis looks up at him with his big sad, soulful eyes, the eyes Lestat has always, always loved, but right now he hates them. Hates everything about this man who never fails to worm his way under Lestat's skin.

"I'm sorry."

It's like a punch to the gut. All the wind is knocked out of him. Lestat stares at Louis, incredulous.

"For what?"

"I've obviously upset you-"

"I'm not _upset_ , Louis."

Louis purses his lips, his darting eyes anxious but the lift of his chin determined, "Well then, I'm sorry that she hurt you. That she made you do these things. That she did these things to you. I'm sorry it all happened."

"Hurt me!" Lestat laughs, angry and broiling and pushing down the pain at the mention of _her_. How dare he. How dare he! "I _loved_ her!"

Very little about Louis' expression changes, but some essential gentleness leaves him and all of a sudden he's as cold and sharp as ice. He meets Lestat's eyes unflinchingly. His voice is utterly calm.

"You can love someone even after they hurt you."

If the apology felt like a gut punch, this is like being hit by a truck. Lestat flounders, trying to grasp for the anger, trying to twist his guilt into something easier to handle. What the hell? Tears prick at his eyes. What the hell is he supposed to say to that?

Lestat breathes in through his mouth and digs his nails into his palms. Let Louis play the martyr, then. Lestat doesn't need to sink that low.

"I don't want your pity," Lestat growls, his voice thick and the words sticking in his throat, "I'm not some _victim_."

The coldness on Louis' face shifts barely perceptively into irritation, and _good_ , Lestat knows what to do with that. Louis gives a long sigh, then steps to the side and gestures at the open doorway, "Will you please come inside so we can talk about this privately?"

Lestat leans into Louis' space and lets his mouth curl up in a leer, showing one fang, pleased when Louis is unable to hide his immediate frown. He still knows exactly how to push Louis' buttons, even after all their years apart.

"There's no one else out here, Louis!" Lestat says, raising his voice and throwing his arms open wide, "Go on, air our dirty laundry! It's not as if you've already written a whole _book_ about it!"

And, oh, that _really_ gets him; when Lestat is angry he gets loud, but Louis just gets quieter and quieter until he explodes, so spotting the build up of his fury is all about the little details. The way his nostrils flare. The way he clenches his jaw. The little dip between his eyebrows. A certain dangerous tone to his voice. Lestat spent the better part of a century becoming an expert in spotting the signs.

"Will you _come_ _inside_ , Lestat," Louis all but growls.

It's not a question this time. Lestat toys with the idea of ignoring him, of staying out here and doing the one thing that winds Louis up more than anything else - making a _scene_ \- but he suspects that Louis will storm inside and refuse to play any more. And that just won't do. So instead, Lestat acquiesces with a mocking bowing gesture, indicating Louis lead the way.

Louis doesn't rise to it. He walks in, all composure and long-limbed grace, then closes the door calmly after Lestat. He takes the time to lock up, places his keys in a little dish on the sideboard, and even takes off and hangs up his coat. When all that is done, he takes a deep breath - and then abruptly he fixes Lestat with a furious gaze. Lestat had assumed that all his stalling had been to try and contain his temper, but he was wrong; Louis had just been winding up like a coiled spring, and now he advances on Lestat, eyes blazing, apparently out of patience. It startles Lestat enough that he actually backs a step away.

"It is not _pity_!" Louis says through his bared teeth, "I am _trying_ , despite your best efforts to push me away, to be _here_ for you, because I _love_ you and I can see that you're hurting!"

"Why do you keep-" Lestat manages to bluster before Louis takes another step closer, sweeping a hand out to dismiss Lestat's attempted rebuttal.

"You loved her, that is a fact," he snaps, "She hurt you, that is another fact. And now she is gone and you are different, and all we can do is try to process it and move forward."

"Move forward? Ha! Rich, coming from you!"

"Yes, from me! Didn't you hear a word I said earlier? I came here to this city to sell the properties - to say my farewells and let go of it, let go of-" for a moment Louis' anger falters and he struggles, swallowing heavily, "-let go of _Claudia_ so I can move forward. Because I want things to be different now! What do _you_ want, Lestat?"

Lestat tries to step away from Louis again but his back hits the wall. Metaphorically and literally cornered. He flounders for a moment before he can rally some indignant rage.

"I want you to stop asking me questions!" Lestat bellows, "Always with the damn questions!"

"No, I won’t!" Louis retorts, "This isn't Rue Royale, you cannot just cow me into submission and keep me in the dark anymore. Before today you avoided me for over a month! You wouldn't even look at me, much less talk to me! I thought that perhaps you just needed time, but then I spoke to Gabrielle - and she said you were running from me because you knew that I would be able to see through your facade and see that there's something _wrong_."

"That's- that's bullshit! Why does everyone keep insisting that there's something wrong with me? I'm _fine_."

"Then why won't you _talk_ to me about-"

"This isn't about Akasha!"

He doesn't even register the words out of his mouth until he sees Louis' expression of shock.

_Akasha_.

The entire world seems to condense down to those three syllables. _Akasha, Akasha, Akasha._

He'd written about her - written her whole damn life story in his book - but he'd never been able to say her name aloud, something made it stick in his throat each time, something about saying it would make it more final, more real.

_Akasha_.

The last time he had said it had been in the compound when he'd been miserably begging her to listen to the others, to not go through with her plan. She'd looked at him then, her beautiful face contorted in pain, eyes full of betrayal, and he'd wanted to weep because how could he choose? She couldn't make him choose, he loved them all so much, and he loved the world they lived in, loved the mortals, she couldn't do this, but she'd stared at him like he'd embedded a knife in her back -

_Akasha_.

\- The same expression he'd seen as he'd lain on the floor, vision swimming, temples pounding, and seen her head, in line with his head, so pale, in a pool of blood, close enough that he could reach out and grab her, help her, _save_ her, but no, oh god, saving her meant choosing her over Gabrielle and Louis and the others and the world and he can't, he just can't, so he'd let her die there alone on the floor, mouth opening and closing like a fish, face so sharp and pale -

_Akasha_.

\- Sharp and pale like the first time he saw her, in that cool white room, so elegant and smooth and beautiful he'd thought her a statue, and how horrified he'd been to learn she was trapped inside! The visceral terror, the way his stomach had churned, the fear that raced through him - this will be me! This will be me! One day I will be trapped inside my body too, unable to move but unable to die! And yet later, he'd felt so drawn to her, he'd crept down with the violin and felt almost possessed with the need to play for her, how the music had filled him and transported him and then she'd sprung up and drunk from him and he'd felt her, truly felt her, her impossibly strong arms around him -

_Akasha_.

\- The way they'd been around him when she'd taken him from Carmel Valley, how he'd been in that last moment of infinite vulnerability as the deathsleep had claimed him and then the terror hurtling through him as he'd felt those vicelike arms close about him, and he'd been unable to struggle, unable to protest, a scream trapped in his throat, feeling the ground slip away and his consciousness slip away with it, his heart thundering madly, brain struggling to fight, to fight, to fight, just as weak and helpless as he'd been when Magnus had stolen him in the night but so much worse because this time he'd known, this time he'd _understood_ exactly what had him in its clutches, what horrors were to come, but as he'd faded away all he'd been able to think about was how cold and hard her skin was against him -

_Akasha_.

\- Cold hard skin, like _his_ skin was when he'd come back to himself, no longer pliant under his fingers and so impossibly white. She'd changed him into a monster just like her, made him into _her_ monster, trapped him in a body he didn't recognise - just like Magnus had done, and he'd how he'd recoiled from himself once more, how the bile had risen in his throat again and that familiar panic had swamped him as the desperate urge to escape his own body grew, that visceral need to crawl out of his own flesh because it was _wrong,_ because it wasn't _him_. And just like in the tower, when he'd staggered down the stone steps to find the corpses of all the other stolen blond boys, he'd walked out of the villa and discovered the bodies of the slaughtered men, skulls rent, festering in pools of their own blood, but this time he'd done it, _he'd_ done it, their lives had been snuffed out with hardly a thought by _him_ , by a _monster_ , their lifeless eyes terrible and accusatory -

_Akasha._

\- Just like _her_ eyes, _Akasha's_ eyes, staring at him barely a few feet away, and he could reach out and help her, he could save her, he could! She's staring at him and begging him, lips forming the words even as blood spills from them. But he knows if he helps her it means sacrificing the others - it means watching her destroy his beloved Gabrielle and dear, dear Louis, seeing her wrath turn on Armand and Marius and Jesse and Daniel and all the others, and he can't, he loves her but he _can't_ , he can't choose her, and he can't speak and he can't breathe so he lies on the floor and stares at her, watches the light fade from her eyes, watches the blood pour from her mouth and neck, and thinks _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I love you but I can't!_

"Lestat!" She calls, her voice distorted by the gurgling of blood in her throat. He wants to sob and scream but he can't get any sound out, he can't _breathe_ -

Oh god, he can't breathe, why can't he breathe? Why can't he breathe? He gasps. He curls up, hands at his throat. He gasps but no air comes. Why can't he breathe? Oh god, oh god.

_You don't need to breathe!_ A lone voice in his racing mind tries to remind him, _You're a vampire!_

It's the truth but it doesn't help at all. He tries to suck in a breath. His chest is tight and heaving. His pulse is pounding in his ears. He can't see or hear anything outside of the claustrophobic darkness of his panic. His ribs feel like they're being squeezed by iron bars, are those Akasha's arms around him again? Is that her? He can't breathe. He can't breathe.

"Lestat."

Akasha's voice, calling him! Except… no, it's not, the voice is much deeper, and the vowels are spoken the french way.

"Lestat, you need to breathe."

Louis! It's Louis. Louis reaching for him and pulling him towards the light. He can feel a pair of hands gripping his arms. His chest is tight but he manages to wheeze a little, and choke, and wheeze again. He feels Louis' thumbs stroking up and down and tries to focus on that, tries to breathe in time with their soothing movements.

Slowly, agonisingly slowly, the pressure around his chest recedes, and his hiccups and wheezes and gasps are able to draw more air. Louis' face is there, brow creased in worry, eyes full of kindness. He nods encouragingly as Lestat's breaths come slower and deeper and he feels himself calming. He's crying, he realises vaguely. When did he start crying? He's not certain if he started earlier, or if it was just out of pure relief when he was able to breathe again. He still cries a lot, he thinks. That's very human. That's… that's good. He's on the floor too. He's not sure when that happened either.

He's very, very tired. His head aches. His chest aches. His throat aches. He feels like a wrung out towel. He runs his hands down his face with a shaky sigh, then wrinkles his nose at the bloody smears on his palms. He glances up to see Louis giving him a concerned frown, so he gives an equally shaky laugh and wipes them off on his jeans.

"'Sn't matter," he says, trying for levity as he gestures to the denim, but his voice is cracked from crying and gasping, so it's little more than a rasp, "'S'already red."

Louis nods solemnly. The worry in his eyes makes humiliation burn Lestat's face; _fine_ he'd said, just _fine_ , and now Louis knows the truth of it. Knows the weakness that lurks just under the surface of Lestat's cold, unbreakable exterior. Too terrible and vampire on the outside for Louis to want him, too weak and human on the inside to cope with this new body, to cope with the consequences of his new power. Truly the worst of both worlds.

They sit in silence, Lestat's deep breaths and racing mind and streaming tears gradually slowing. Louis turns away and watches the fire, seemingly trying to offer Lestat a modicum of privacy now the immediate concern is over. It's… something, Lestat supposes.

At least he doesn't look ugly when he cries - he knows, he's watched himself in the mirror.

Louis looks back at him, watches him intently for a moment, and then raises his eyebrows questioningly. It clearly means, _are you okay?_ and whilst the answer is very definitely no, Lestat just wants this all to be over, so he shrugs non-committally.

Louis sighs.

"I'd like it if you stayed over tonight, if you don't mind," he says quietly, "I don't have any coffins here, but one of the bedrooms is sunproof," he takes Lestat's hand, "Will you stay?"

And this, this more than anything else, this proves that Louis loves him, because _he doesn't make Lestat ask to stay_. Lestat is slumped on the floor, face caked in drying blood-tears, weak and devastated and mortified and utterly hollowed out, and instead of forcing him to climb over the veritable mountain that is his very last sliver of pride, Louis _asks_ him to stay. As if there's any chance at all that Lestat could get up right now and stagger back to a hotel.

Lestat makes a vague kind of noise. His voice is hoarse.

Louis reaches out and tucks a wayward curl out of Lestat's face and back behind his ear, "Tomorrow I can conclude my business, and then we can leave together to go to London and do whatever it was you were thinking earlier."

"Yeah," Lestat croaks. He clears his throat, "Yes, alright. I'll stay."

Louis' face does that achingly beautiful thing where it goes all soft when he smiles. Still so human. Lestat could start crying again just from that. How could he have been so angry at this man?

Louis rocks back on his heels and offers Lestat a hand, and they stand with only a brief moment of wobbly knees. He doesn't release Lestat's hand, which Lestat is grateful for; just threads their fingers together and leads him on through the house. Lestat wipes at his face with his sleeve as they walk.

It's not an ugly house, but it's not a particularly appealing one either. It looks dated, as if the owner bought all the expensive, practical furniture about twenty years ago, and just decided that as it's all still in meticulous condition, there's no reason to replace it or redecorate. And Lestat knows this because it was exactly what had happened with Louis' bedroom in the Rue Royale flat. It makes him smile a little, and tighten his grip on Louis' hand.

He's led upstairs into a box room with a tiny window and barely enough floor space to walk around the double bed. Louis drops his hand and moves to the side of a tall oak wardrobe, which he shifts in front of the window with a controlled shove - and that is, apparently, the extent of the sunproofing.

Louis has always been unnervingly blasé about the solar-security of his sleeping places, and Lestat feels that familiar old clench in the pit of his stomach, from back before Claudia, from when things were really terrible between them and Louis was nothing more than a miserable, rat-eating ghost; that low fear that one evening he might wake up and find a pile of ashes, and never know if it was accidental or not.

Something must show on his face, because Louis gives him a reassuring squeeze on his arm as he passes him to cross to the other side of the bed, "It’s perfectly safe - the sun barely reaches this side of the house at this time of year."

_It’s not me I’m worried about_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say. Can he even die from sun exposure anymore, with _her_ blood in his veins? He feels a chill shoot down his spine.

He’s pulled from that spiralling train of thought by Louis sitting down on the bed and tugging off his shoes. Lestat quickly follows suit, relieved to have the simple menial tasks of unbuttoning his jacket and unbuckling his boots to distract his scattered mind and exhausted body.

"You can hang your things in the wardrobe, if you like, there should be plenty of room."

Lestat looks up from his boots at Louis' voice and what he sees makes him pause; Louis has stripped down to his t-shirt and boxer shorts, and is busying himself with carefully folding each item of discarded clothing. A t-shirt and underwear is a perfectly acceptable standard of modern nightwear, one that he's seen his band members regularly employ, and Lestat ought to follow this example, but the fact is that he abandoned any idea of wearing underwear when he picked up his first pair of tight-fit jeans. It was very much a one-or-the-other choice and, well, the jeans were _red_. It's the fashion among rockstars nowadays, anyway, to be somewhat on display.

He considers - briefly - the possibility of wearing just his t-shirt, but given that the hem only reaches to his hips, something about the image feels strangely obscene… and not in a particularly flattering way. He could keep his jeans on, but the idea of 'sleeping' fully clothed doesn't especially appeal either; even in the earlier days of his vampirism, in a time when hygiene standards were somewhat lower, he'd always stripped down to his shirt and breeches and made certain to change his clothes as soon as he awoke. In his Carmel Valley mansion he'd stockpiled dozens of versions of the most luxurious sleepwear that he'd delighted in trying out - but he doesn't have any of those here.

There is only one choice, really, though he finds himself baulking at it; if Louis had reacted so negatively to the demonstration of his new vampire power with the door and the fire, there's no doubt that he'll take one look at the revealed expanse of Lestat's pale, cold, marble-like body and recoil. And after how hideously embarrassing his little breakdown was, he's not certain he can survive a rejection like that. He'd have to go bury himself in the ground for another half century.

But… what else can he do? Get into bed fully clothed and broadcast infinitely _more_ obviously that there's something wrong - on _top_ of the bullshit from earlier? The concept of modesty has never been something Lestat has subscribed to, and Louis is more familiar with that than anyone; Lestat pretending he's totally comfortable getting into bed wearing what are possibly the world's tightest jeans rather than just stripping off would be like a flashing neon sign for Louis. No, no, he can't, Louis'll give him that sad, sad look again, like he's something weak and broken.

He'll have to take it all off. That's the only option. Even if it makes Louis flinch away, even if Louis sees him for the monster he is, tries to hide his horror but won't touch Lestat, won't come near him, stays on the other side of the bed and as soon as the sun sets scrambles away to-

His heart begins to race again. His breathing gets shallower.

_No!_ He thinks furiously, as the panic begins to rise, _No, I'm not doing this again!_

He's taking too long. Any moment now Louis will turn around and see him still frozen, see the fear in his face. He needs to act, now. He needs to do what he always does: stop thinking, raise the stakes, and damn the consequences.

Deliberately not thinking about it, he uses his vampire speed to yank his t-shirt off over his head, wriggle out of his jeans, and climb onto the bed in the time it takes Louis to fold his shirt. He does his best to look calm and at least _moderately_ sexy in the moment he has before Louis turns around.

To his credit, Louis only freezes for a few seconds, staring blankly, before slowly, deliberately blinking away his shock, and also climbing onto the bed. He's watching Lestat the whole time, but aggravatingly it's not in a 'can't take my eyes off your naked body' way - more like he's trying not to spook a particularly anxious horse. Is his panic really that obvious? Lestat lifts the comforter and slides under, trying to focus on the feel of the sheets, trying to slow the frantic beating of his heart and ground himself. Louis copies him, still cautious.

They both lie on their sides, watching each other, and Lestat exhales deeply, letting the panic seep away as he studies the man in front of him. Something about the moment feels like they're pulled out of time together. Louis' face hasn't changed in all the years since he was turned, still as wan and sharp and lovely as ever, fine dark hair long again, green eyes calm but bright. It could be 1790, or 1835, or the 1980s on the very cusp of the 21st century. There's no time, but also so _much_ time, so much they could drown in it, but they're not - here they are in their own little air pocket together. Two immortals facing down eternity. Two pale bodies in a bed.

Lestat wants to voice these thoughts, articulate them somehow because he knows Louis appreciates such fanciful poetic thinking, but when he opens his mouth what comes out is, "Are you still angry with me?"

Louis blinks again, startled. And then he sighs, mouth twisting, and glances away, "No," he says, "It's alright. We can talk about it some other night."

"Louis," Lestat reaches out a hand across the gulf between them and rests it on the sheet next to Louis' hand, "I want to hear what you have to say."

Is it true? Lestat isn't certain. Maybe Louis will say something awful that he really doesn't want to hear, or try and get him to talk again. But that doesn't matter - it _feels_ like the right thing to say, and Louis has been terribly kind with him tonight, and something about this suspended time makes Lestat want to try and be kind too.

Louis takes a deep breath, the anxiety returning to his face. Lestat wants to reach just that little bit further with his hand and cup his cheek, but his own anxiety stops him - can't touch. Too cold. Too monstrous. It'll frighten Louis away.

"Lestat, I..." Louis swallows, blinking quickly several times, then continues softly, voice low with feeling, "When I came to find you before the concert, it wasn't an impulse decision - I thought long and hard about it and I decided… well…" Louis swallows, "I realised it was my greatest wish that we could be... _together_. Live together, walk together, talk together. I wished it just as much when I left you the next morning, and now, as far as my heart is concerned, nothing has changed. I want to be with you," he adds quickly, a little colour coming to his cheeks, "If I have misunderstood, perhaps read too much into what you have said and done, then _please_ , tell me now and set me to rights."

Lestat stares at him, eyes wide. Louis stares back, clearly afraid but resolute, refusing to drop his gaze.

And, _oh_ , what can he say in response to that, what can he possibly do, other than kiss Louis absolutely senseless? All apprehension leaves his mind as he surges forwards, trying to convey the explosive delight inside of him in the crushing of their mouths together. Louis makes a muffled sound of surprise, but quickly gets with the program and responds in kind. Lestat feels Louis' lips curl up against his as he kisses back, and feels like his heart might burst.

When they pull away they stay close, nose to nose, breathing the same air. Lestat is grinning so wide his cheeks ache, and Louis - Louis must be _ecstatic_ because he's grinning too; not his usual polite close-mouthed smile but full and unreserved, sharp teeth on show. He's relaxed and un-self-conscious and it's possibly the most beautiful thing Lestat can remember ever seeing.

"May I take that as a yes?" Louis asks softly, still smiling but with the barest hint of hesitancy in his voice.

Lestat snorts, "For such a smart man, you can be incredibly stupid. Haven't you read my books? Of course I want to be with you!"

Louis' smile widens, "I like to hear you say it," he whispers, like it's a confession.

Lestat moves in closer and says, against Louis' lips, "I want to be with you." And then kisses him again.

It's not their first kiss by a long shot. They'd kissed many times over their years in Rue Royale; furious resentful kisses when anger crossed that fine line into passion; hesitant gentle kisses during truces; the kiss he stole that fateful night before their daughter slit his throat. Then, almost a century later, the kisses as they were reunited. Frantic kisses sloppy in desperation snatched before they travelled to the concert, full of fear that they may not survive to kiss again. Louis taking his arm to deliver him a good-luck kiss backstage - not shamefully hidden but boldly, _publically_ staking his claim, and so sweet Lestat could have wept. They'd kissed once as Louis was leaving with Gabrielle that morning, and then once in exhausted miserable relief when it was all over several nights later. And he'd kissed Louis in the cemetery, among their fellow dead, dizzy on the high of that soft smile and his gentle confession.

This isn't like any of those kisses.

Lestat curls his fingers in Louis' t-shirt to anchor himself because he feels like he's floating, suspended in this strange, wonderful moment, buoyed up by his own happiness. He's kissing Louis with no agenda - no expectations, no anger, no fear, no bitterness - and he realises that he hasn't just lain alongside someone and kissed like this since he was human and with Nicki. And then Louis' tongue runs along his bottom lip, and Lestat tilts his head to grant him better access, and all of a sudden it's very easy not to think about Nicki at all.

Louis closes the gap between their bodies by placing a hand flat on Lestat's waist; he must have fed well that evening, because his palm is so warm it feels like a brand on Lestat’s skin. For a moment Lestat enjoys it, arching into the touch-

-And then it occurs to him that the reason Louis feels so very warm is because Lestat himself is so very _cold_. Unnaturally cold. _Monstrously_ cold. The anxiety hits him like a flash flood, giddiness and arousal and delight being totally washed out of him, and he can't help but flinch away, breaking the kiss and retreating back across the bed.

A humiliating, _telling_ reaction, but he can't take it back now, can't hide. If he were a human he would be flushed with shame. He sucks in a deep shaky breath, clenches his jaw, and focuses intently on the cotton blend weave of Louis' charcoal grey t-shirt, because he can't bear to meet his eyes.

"Lestat?" Louis asks gently. His hand appears in the path of Lestat's laser focus, hovering awkwardly between them. Lestat glances up for just a moment, and his heart aches at the sight of those drawn together dark eyebrows, that frown.

"Lestat?" Louis prompts again when he looks away, even softer, coaxing, "Please, will you tell me what's wrong?"

"Touching me must feel like touching a statue," Lestat blurts, and to his horror his voice is thick and catches in his throat, and no, _no_ , he won't cry! Not here, in their bubble, their golden moment! He won't ruin it!

Louis blinks, and then Lestat sees in his face the moment he understands. His brow creases. He gives Lestat a long, thoughtful look.

"Can I…?" He asks, moving his hand towards Lestat's face, stopping several inches away. Lestat swallows, then nods.

Louis' touch on his face is feather-light at first, just fingertips ghosting over his cheekbone, down his jaw, around his chin. Then Louis moves to cup Lestat's cheek against his palm and gently sweeps his thumb back and forth, as if testing the give of the skin there. Finally, he leans in and presses his lips to Lestat's - only for a second, before his blunt front teeth replace them, taking hold of Lestat's bottom lip almost hard enough to hurt, rolling it between his teeth, feeling the way the plump tissue sinks under the pressure.

Louis lets go and pulls away. He looks considering for a moment.

"A little cold, perhaps, but not a statue," he says, then smiles, "Just Le- _stat_."

The pun is so very terrible, and he's so relieved and so bewilderingly turned on by being _touched_ like that, that Lestat has to laugh. It feels cathartic, and it's worth it for the smug, pleased-with-himself expression Louis pulls. Lestat laughs until his chest stops being tight and he can feel tears welling up, and then he laughs some more.

"Don't go thinking that was funny," he gasps, levelling a finger at Louis, "Because it wasn't!"

Louis is utterly unrepentant. As Lestat calms himself, Louis shuffles closer and sneaks his hand back onto Lestat's waist; Lestat forces himself not to react to the temperature difference, and Louis carefully stroking up and down his side helps.

"Did you really think I would reject you for that?" Louis asks, after a few moments.

Lestat shrinks into himself, then bristles defensively, "I saw your face when I lit the fire, what was I supposed to think?"

Louis does at least look a little guilty.

"I cannot pretend that you being able to conjure fire at will doesn't make me… uneasy. But the paleness, the skin - they don't bother me, you're still _you_ ," he smiles and moves the hand on Lestat's waist up to cup his cheek again, "You are just as beautiful to me now as the first time I saw you."

Lestat beams, then something occurs to him, and his smile turns into a wide toothy grin, "I hate to ruin the moment, but the first time you saw me you were pissing in an alleyway, and you were so drunk you barely registered my existence."

Louis doesn't react for a moment, just staring. And then his nose scrunches and his mouth does something between a grimace and a wince as he brings up his hands to cover his face. Lestat can't help but grin wider.

"So, whilst I appreciate the sentiment, chéri," he continues, "I'm not really sure how much it _means_."

Louis groans. The sound is muffled. Lestat laughs and tries to pry his hands away, but Louis refuses, curling up in a ball of mortification, warm knees brushing against Lestat's thighs.

"I cannot believe you still pursued me after that," Louis mumbles.

"You were just so terribly charming… and you had a _beard_."

Louis parts his fingers and peers at Lestat from between them, expression incredulous, "You cannot tell me that you _liked_ that beard."

"It was terribly rugged, darling."

"It was disgusting! And very itchy."

Lestat sighs and presses a hand to his heart, "I am still in mourning for that beard. I was utterly devastated when I came for you the next night and you were clean-shaven."

Another groan comes from behind Louis' hands. It's very endearing. Lestat tries to move them again but Louis still refuses. He leans in and presses light kisses across Louis' knuckles, and when _that_ doesn't work, he licks a long, slobbery stripe across the back of both hands. That does work - Louis snatches his hands away, face creased in consternation and disgust, and that's all the opening Lestat needs to dart in. He misjudges a little and the kiss lands mostly on the corner of Louis' mouth and his cheek, but the silliness of it is enough to charm Louis into taking Lestat's face in his hands to guide him back to his target.

The kiss starts off slow and languid, but quickly grows more heated as they both let their hands wander. Lestat hooks a leg over Louis' thigh to bring their hips together and a thrill shoots through him at the way Louis breaks the kiss to gasp shallowly at the contact. For vampires, arousal isn't centered on one area, the way it is for humans, but there's something instinctive about the way they begin to rock against each other. Lestat has no idea if it's even _possible_ for them to get off the mortal way; with the draw and delights of the blood so superior and so much more urgent, and Louis historically so reserved with his affections, Lestat had never thought it really worth the effort to try.

It _definitely_ feels worth it now.

Lestat pulls back far enough that he can see Louis' face, "If this is going where I hope it's going," he says, "I have... _supplies_ in my jacket…"

"...Really?" Louis asks, genuinely surprised. It's not quite the enthusiastic response Lestat was hoping for, but at the very least he's not offended or disgusted.

"Yes, I cleared out the bathroom on Armand's plane," Lestat smirks at the thought of the small mischief, sitting up and reaching for the denim jacket slung over the bedpost, "I also have three tiny bottles of designer shampoo, some hand sanitizer, two tubes of rose-scented moisturiser, and a little soap that looks like a cake."

For a second, Louis is silent. And then he bursts out laughing.

The laughter seems to take him by surprise, as he immediately brings a hand up to cover his mouth; a polite habit of centuries is rather hard to break, after all. He pushes himself up to sitting too, trying to regain some dignity, but when Lestat cheerfully empties out his jacket pockets to display his spoils - the small bottle of lubricant pointedly set on the top of the pile - Louis loses it all over again.

As Lestat watches him try to compose himself, he fixes the moment in his mind. _Don't forget this_ , he thinks. _Don't you fuck this up, because_ this _is what you'll be losing._

Louis wipes at his eyes, still smiling, "What on earth are you going to do with it all?"

Lestat flicks the lubricant bottle so that it rolls over and hits Louis' foot.

"I can think of a few things," he says, raising his eyebrows.

"Lestat," Louis says gently, picking up the bottle and placing it back on the pile, "We've got less than half an hour before sunrise."

Lestat's heart drops, "So you don't want to?" He asks, unable to hide his disappointment.

Louis reaches out and places a hand on Lestat's knee, "I didn't say that."

His voice is low. His hand is warm on Lestat's knee. Lestat swallows. Louis has a point, but it's difficult to concede that when he's right there, and _touching_ him. Lestat pouts. Louis chuckles and squeezes Lestat's knee, like that's not just going to make it worse.

"I want to do this with you," he says, doing an admirable job of keeping eye contact even as his cheeks redden with stolen blood, "I'm not certain what we _can_ do, as we are, but I want to find out. I want to try. With you. But when we can take our time with it."

"Tomorrow?" Lestat asks hopefully.

"You wanted to go to London," Louis reminds him.

"That was just…" Lestat waves a hand, "Just a thought, it doesn't matter, it can wait."

"You mean _David Talbot_ can wait?"

Lestat's mouth drops open.

"That was your plan, wasn't it? To go and harass him?" Louis smiles slyly, raising his eyebrows, "Well, it seems to me that there's only enough time for one tomorrow. What'll it be?"

Lestat swallows. Some stuffy old fool halfway across the world, or _Louis_ , with his long fingers and low voice, green eyes dark as he watches Lestat squirm, naked in all the best and worst ways?

As the kids these days say: _well, duh._

"London can wait. Tomorrow, you can go off to your meeting, and I'll stay right here," he pats the bed, "Waiting for you to come back."

Louis moves closer, until their knees are touching under the comforter, then leans in until their mouths are just a breath away.

"Promise?" He whispers.

Lestat kisses him - a quick dart in, his tongue lingering - then takes Louis' hand to place it over his heart, "Promise."

As he'd hoped, Louis takes the gesture as an invitation. He flattens his palm against Lestat's chest and moves his hand over the smooth skin, fingers tracing the bow of his collarbone. There's a scar at the end of it - when he'd been mortal it had been a small knot of tissue, but with the years and the blood it had faded considerably. Now, with his latest powerful infusion, it's just a small discoloured pockmark.

Louis pauses at it, running a finger over it curiously.

"How did you get this?" He asks.

"A fall from a tree as a child," Lestat smiles wryly, "Augustin pushed me."

Louis' eyebrows shoot up, then lower in consternation, "Deliberately?"

Lestat shrugs, "You were the eldest, you must remember what it can be like between brothers."

"Yes, we would fight and rough-house sometimes, but…" Louis frowns, "I don't believe I ever hurt Paul _purposefully_."

The mood is rapidly slipping away from them with all this talk of brothers - and it's only a matter of time before Louis' mind turns towards Paul's death. Lestat thinks quickly for a distraction.

"Do you want to see the scar the wolves left me?" He asks, shifting around to face away from Louis and gesturing over his shoulder to his back, "I don't know if it's still there - it should be across my shoulder blade?"

Lestat feels Louis move closer, and then his warm fingertips and breath ghost a line over Lestat's back, "Here?"

"Yes, that feels right."

Louis hums, "There's a very faint mark. It must have been a fearsome gash for it to still be visible now."

Lestat opens his mouth to tell the heroic story of it all, when he feels the cold tip of Louis' nose against his skin, and his lips lightly brushing the same path his fingers had taken. Kisses are slowly but deliberately pressed up from his shoulder towards his neck, and suddenly all thoughts of whatever shamelessly exaggerated bullshit he had been planning on spinning vanish. Louis pushes lightly on his back to indicate that he should lie down, and Lestat complies, resting his chin on a pillow and closing his eyes.

He feels surprisingly relaxed considering that his two hundred year old fantasies are finally being realised.

Once he's lying down, Louis moves over him, bracketing Lestat’s thighs with his knees, one hand either side of his head. He sweeps Lestat's hair aside to reach his neck, kissing and nipping with his blunt front teeth, but spends an agonisingly short amount of time there before moving away. He maps a winding path down Lestat's spine with his lips and hands, spreading warmth wherever he touches. When he reaches the small of Lestat's back he takes his time, tracing the dip in his spine with his tongue, and Lestat raises his hips up hopefully to try and direct attention towards a particular unacknowledged asset.

He feels Louis' exhale of a chuckle against his skin, but the only response he gets is Louis' hand pressing down firmly on his lower back until he's flat against the bed again. Lestat is a lot stronger; he could escape the hold with very little effort, and Louis knows that too, and there's something in that that Lestat _likes_ , that makes heat curl in his belly. _Because you know that I_ could _escape, if I wanted to, I won't, because I want to._ In return for his obedience, Lestat receives two light, chaste kisses - one pressed in the middle of each ass cheek. He pouts, but doesn’t protest.

Louis moves the comforter away and continues down Lestat's body, nipping at his inner thigh sharply enough to make Lestat squirm and grumble about _teases_. He noses his way down one leg - pausing briefly at the back of his knee to delightedly exploit a ticklish spot - before moving up the other leg and returning to Lestat's back.

Lestat sighs, letting his eyes droop closed as he focuses on the gentle pressure of Louis’ lips against his skin. Despite the arousal building in his core, his limbs feel pleasantly heavy, and the adrenaline from his earlier anxiety has subsided into a sense of deep calm. He could fall into a mortal sleep right here.

"I would have given anything for you to let me touch you like this back then," Louis murmurs against his hip.

Lestat knows without asking that 'back then' means their time in Rue Royale. He imagines it, then smiles lazily into the pillow.

"I would have given anything too."

Louis pauses in his ministrations to rest his forehead against Lestat's back, "No," he says softly, as if trying to let Lestat down easily, "You always got so angry when I tried to be gentle with you. You would never have let me touch you like this."

The truth of it hits Lestat, and his smile sours. There's a lump in his throat. Seventy years he spent trying to goad Louis into accepting his true nature - not just his vampirism, but his homosexuality too - only to panic whenever Louis _would_ give in and get too close to something true, something _real_. God, what a pointless waste! Lestat swallows hard and Louis must notice the tension return to his body because he pulls away. When Lestat turns his head to find him, he sees Louis lying on his side next to him, close enough to touch without extending his arm, watching him with solemn but calm eyes.

"I did want you to be gentle with me," Lestat mumbles, voice muffled by the pillow and coming out childish - he _feels_ childish, small and stupid and ashamed. He wishes for the hundredth, thousandth time that he could pierce the veil between their minds and show Louis what he wants to say without having to go through the mortification of actually saying it, "I _wanted_ you to touch me like this, I just…"

"You were afraid," Louis says, "So was I."

Afraid to be vulnerable. Afraid to get hurt. Afraid to lose power. Afraid to lose _control_.

It's true.

Louis' voice is flat, though not accusatory. It's not forgiveness, but it is understanding, and it's an olive branch that Lestat is eager to take.

"I'm not now," Lestat says quickly. He reaches out a hand across the space between them and rests his palm against the sharp corner of Louis' jaw, fingers threading into his dark hair, "Will you kiss me again?"

That's enough to soften Louis' expression immediately, the smallest of smiles curling at the corner of his mouth. "Spoiled," he murmurs, shifting closer despite himself.

"Yes, yes, I'm a brat, I've been told," Lestat grins, "But kiss me anyway."

Louis does, and the sweetness of the kiss, and the warmth of his body pressing against him, is more than enough to melt away the miserable weight that had built in his chest. Lestat winds his arms around Louis' waist, and buries his face against Louis’ neck, inhaling the familiar smell of his cologne and enjoying the tickle of his fine dark hair. He can feel the approach of the dawn now, and the idea of slipping into the deathsleep curled together like this is a pleasant one.

"Lestat?"

"Mmph?" Lestat mumbles.

" _Lestat_."

Louis’ voice is insistent. Lestat pulls back to find his dark eyebrows furrowed, his mouth pinched, his eyes full of regret.

"What on earth is wrong now?" Lestat asks. Louis winces.

"I shouldn't have tried to make you talk about…" Louis swallows, and tries again, "I shouldn't have tried to make you talk. Earlier. I was just afraid that you were pushing me away when I'd only just got you back. I’m sorry."

Louis' capacity for melancholy never ceases to amaze Lestat. Once, he might have been aggravated by it, but lying here in bed, their legs tangled together, he is able to find it oddly endearing. This sad, strange, beautiful man who has given him his heart. How life pains him so.

Lestat leans in and kisses his cheeks, then the corner of his mouth, "Forget it."

Louis still looks troubled. Lestat knows what he needs to say - the promise on the tip of his tongue about when they'll talk about all this, and his _feelings_ about it - but he gazes into Louis' eyes and silently begs him not to make him say it, because he knows it's a promise he probably won't keep.

Louis must understand, because he nods slowly, "Alright," he says, "Alright."

"This bed is hideously uncomfortable," Lestat jumps in quickly, trying to change the subject. He's grumbling but he can't stop the smile on his lips, "And this entire house is _really_ ugly."

Louis looks at him then, _really_ looks at him, suddenly intense, "I'll fix it all for you, if you want," he says softly. It's a perfect mimicry of Lestat earlier, and he understands what Louis is saying without saying. It's an offer.

"No," Lestat replies, "No, I think we've spent enough time in this city. We should get away," he perks up, "That's an idea - we should go somewhere, the two of us! Take a holiday!"

Louis raises his eyebrows, "What about your tour?"

Oh god, the tour. Lestat thinks about the amount of voicemails that will be sitting waiting for him at the Carmel Valley mansion and can't help but wince. They probably think he's dead. Maybe that's for the best.

"The band went on without me, so I'm pretty certain that ship has sailed," he says, sighing, "No more rock star life for The Vampire Lestat."

"Oh, I don't know," Louis says thoughtfully, "There were thousands of people all over America desperate to watch the great _Vampire_ _Lestat_ perform," Louis smiles, and Lestat can't help but smile back, "I doubt that's changed just because you missed a few tour dates."

"Thousands of people, huh?"

"Mhmm," Louis is playing with his hair now, absently running his fingers through the thick golden curls, "And, you know, I'm willing to bet your terribly _mysterious_ disappearance has just increased the demand."

Lestat can't help it - that flirtatious smile is just too much - he pulls Louis in for another kiss. The angle is a little awkward, with both of their faces on the pillow and their noses squashed together, but happiness still bubbles up inside of him. He pulls back, ducking his head to hide how ridiculously wide he's grinning.

"If I went back on tour, would you come with me?" He asks, looking up through his eyelashes.

Louis licks his lips and glances away, "Are you sure I wouldn't just- ah, what is the phrase - 'bring you down'? I'm hardly a glamorous travel companion."

"If you don't come I'll be bored out of my mind and I'll have to start trouble," Lestat dips in close again so Louis has to go almost cross-eyed to look at him, and places his hands on his cheeks, "Please, Louis, no one else understands how _hilarious_ this all is."

"I don't like big parties," Louis reminds him.

"We don't have to go out _every_ night, and..." Lestat searches for something that could work as a compromise, "...and when we do go out I won't tell you what to wear. You don't have to dress up, you can wear what you like - just so long as you come with me. _Please_ , Louis."

"You're certain I won't bore you?"

" _Louis_."

Louis says nothing for a few moments, apparently searching Lestat's face for something. Lestat forces himself not to squirm under the scrutiny, tries to look open and appealing. And then Louis must find whatever he's looking for, because his smile returns, wide and delighted.

"Yes, alright," he whispers.

"Oui?"

"Oui."

"You'll have a good time, I swear."

Louis chuckles, but it's interrupted by a wide yawn. When he opens his eyes again they're hooded and sleepy, the deathsleep obviously not too far off for him. Lestat smiles fondly, darts in to kiss Louis on the forehead, then rolls over and scoots backwards until they're pressed together. Spooning, he'd heard Tough Cookie call it. The warmth of Louis' front against his back feels just as good as he'd hoped, and it's compounded by Louis wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him closer. Lestat tugs the comforter and sheets up, so they're properly tucked in.

It's ridiculous, because there's only a wardrobe between them and the sun, and there's no electronic security system to speak of, and whilst Louis has a mean right hook he's no _bodyguard_ \- but lying there in that tiny room with the weight of the blanket and heat of Louis beside him, he feels safer than he ever did in Carmel Valley with his security team, or on Night Island with its cutting edge electronics.

"How will you explain who I am?" Louis asks, voice low in his ear.

"The band have already met you."

"I mean, to your manager, and the fans, and the press."

Lestat shrugs, lacing his fingers with Louis' and admiring the sight with a pleased smile, "I'll just tell them the truth," he says absently, "That you're Louis, my Louis, from the books, that we're finally back together, and everyone will think I'm charmingly eccentric for keeping up the act and persuading some gorgeous man to pretend to be my husband."

Louis goes so still that for a moment Lestat wonders if the deathsleep has claimed him, but then he mumbles, "Husband? Isn't that a little… domestic for a rockstar?"

Lestat shifts to look over his shoulder at Louis' bemused expression, "We spent _seventy years_ living together and raising a child. I think it's fair to say that I'm capable of being domestic."

Louis raises his eyebrows and tilts his head, as if to say, _fair enough_ , and, satisfied, Lestat settles back in the circle of Louis' arms. It's comfortable, and the comfort makes the growing heaviness of his limbs and lassitude of his mind feel welcome rather than something he wants to fight.

"Why is your nose always so cold?" Lestat mumbles, poking Louis in the shin with his foot. When Louis doesn't respond he continues, "The rest of you is warm enough, it doesn't make sense."

When Louis still says nothing, Lestat glances back at him; his face is slack and unmoving. Dead to the world, in the most literal sense, not even keeping up the habit of breathing. It ought to be unnerving, but, as Lestat rolls over and studies him, it reminds him strangely of their first night; Louis lying atop him in the old coffin, his frustration and anxiety slowly bleeding away as his body died. How he'd given up on his consternation and embarrassment and eventually accepted the awkward embrace, and fallen asleep with his face sweetly hidden in Lestat's hair, like the lover Lestat had yearned for him to be. Affection swells inside Lestat's heart, making it ache in his chest for the umpteenth time that night.

The novels, the concert, all the business with _her_ \- they survived it all, and here he is, just as hopelessly besotted as he was the very first moment he came across this delightful, infuriating, impossible, beautiful young man, picking a fight in a tavern, and dipped inside his mind to discover someone even more beautiful still.

"This is a new beginning," he whispers. It's easier to say it when he knows Louis can't hear.

And then he feels the tug behind his eyelids as his head grows heavy and the darkness encroaches, and he draws in his final breath of the night, he thinks, _this time I'm going to do better._


End file.
